


Of Light, of Smoke

by Paper_Crane_Song



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Cultural Differences, Episode Related, Episode: s01e03 The Quadripartite Affair, Friendship, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 11:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9233186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paper_Crane_Song/pseuds/Paper_Crane_Song
Summary: “Why, he's a different person!” Marion exclaims, and I cannot disagree.Illya in Yugoslavia, as seen through Napoleon's eyes. A missing scene toThe Quadripartite Affair.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I love watching Illya in America - he doesn't know what an ice cream sundae is, he doesn't know what 'boffo' stands for, and he thinks that raisin rye bread is a bomb because he's never heard of it. Then we see him operating in other cultures such as _The Terbuf Affair_ or _The Quadripartite Affair_ and he shines. 
> 
> So this story is just me thinking about cross-cultural friendships in general, and Napoleon and Illya's in particular. The title is taken from a Pablo Neruda poem. Hope you enjoy it :)

**Napoleon**

Illya calls out what I assume passes for a greeting in these parts, and to my surprise the suspicious, scowling, thickset Yugoslavian greets him like a long-lost brother, patting him in delight, his hand on the back of Illya's head which seems a tad too intimate for my liking, and I am even more surprised when Illya _lets_ him, and what's more seems to be reciprocating the embrace with genuine enthusiasm.

Once we are safely ensconced in Milan's cabin, Marion goes to wash up. Meanwhile Milan dumps a couple of bowls in front of us and then proceeds to say grace. I am no choir boy but I _am_ a gentleman, and so I close my eyes politely. Milan seems to be taking his sweet time though, and when I squint one eye open I am chagrined to see that Illya is regarding me with intense amusement as he makes fast work of his gruel.

“Isn't he saying grace?” I say, bemused.

Illya shakes his head, shovelling in another mouthful. “Poetry.”

 _Poetry?_ The man has a goat wandering round his hut for goodness sake.

Illya grins at my expression. “You Americans nourish your bodies, but we Slavs nourish our souls.”

“It looks like you're doing a pretty good job of both at the moment."

Before Illya can retort, Milan finishes up his poetry recital and claps me on the shoulder. “Eat, eat!”

“What was the poem about, anyway?” I say, delicately placing my handkerchief over one knee and stalling for time so I won't have to eat anything. But then we hear Marion coming back in, and Illya tells me solemnly that he can't translate it when there are ladies present.

 

* * *

 After the mission is over we get the hell out of Dodge. Trouble is, our local guide is dead, something I truly regret, and we are literally in the middle of nowhere. Our communicators are out of range and I don't fancy another go at those mountains. Before I can make a decision, my glorious partner spots a sheep that he recognises as part of a flock and manages to track down the sheep herders. More indistinguishable greetings and affectionate patting ensue and then before I know it we've been invited to stay the night, with the promise of a lift out tomorrow.

It's dark by the time we reach their hut, and the family humble me with their generosity as they ply us with meat and moonshine that Illya tells us is brewed from potatoes, and then somehow word gets round and more and more people drop by until the hut is crammed full. There are no goats, fortunately.

It's late now. Marion is asleep on my shoulder and I am watching my partner and the way he interacts with these people. It's not a fluke; people genuinely seem to love him here, and the feeling seems to be mutual. I have been deemed a dim-witted foreigner and so they have topped up my drink and sat me in front of the fire with dates and nuts before promptly forgetting about me. I feel like an ailing granny.

The evening draws on, and then suddenly people start getting up and moving chairs back. I assume things are winding down and yet no one is leaving.

“What's happening now?” I say to Illya, _sotto voce._

“They're going to sing,” Illya says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. I guess here, it is.

The songs are guttural and animated and I am no longer surprised when my partner joins in. Nothing surprises me anymore, not even when someone hands Illya a guitar and he starts thrashing out a song that everyone seems to know and involves a lot of vigorous fist-raising. When the dancing starts, I'm a fair way to being three sheets to the wind simply because there's nothing else for me to do. For once at a party I am invisible, and so I content myself with watching Illya dance through my warm and fuzzy alcohol haze, wondering if the girls in the secretarial pool would ever believe it if I told them.

After much dancing and more singing, Illya plonks himself down next to me, flushed and breathing hard. He seems to have forgotten all about Western convention and the concept of personal space because he grips me hard on the shoulder and leans in too close. “You all right?” he shouts into my ear.

“Fine,” I shout back. “You seem happy,” I say, nodding to the revellers.

“Of course I am happy,” he says, looking over at them, and the fire lights up his face, “these are my people.” He looks relaxed and young and so at home here that for a moment I have trouble reconciling my partner with this stranger in front of me.

“Marija said there's a pallet in the back if you want to sleep,” he says then, gesturing at the stout, middle-aged woman who has been staring and nodding at me this past half hour or so. I thought she was trying to flirt with me but now I realise she was feeling sorry for me.

“All right,” I say, obscurely ashamed, as if I'm being sent to my room for some undefined misdemeanour. “What about Marion?”

“She can sleep in Marija's room.”

“And you?”

“I'll stay up a little longer,” he says, standing, "we have much to talk about," and by _we_ I know he doesn't mean me.

 

* * *

 

I'm not used to feeling like an outsider, of being coddled and looked after as if I'm intellectually deficient. The children here regard me as a source of amusement, taking it in turns to spy on me and laughing and running away when I pull silly faces at them. And if I'm honest, I don't like someone else running the show, even if it is my partner. So it is with a sense of relief when we finally head out. I leave it to Illya to make the appropriate cultural niceties and I help Marion into the back of the pick-up truck.

We wait for him as the villagers say goodbye. There is hugging and kissing on both sides and Illya seems completely at ease with all of it.

“Why, he's a different person!” Marion exclaims, and I cannot disagree.

When Illya eventually manages to break away, laden down with food and gifts, I give him a hand up into the truck.

“All right?”

He nods, settling himself next to me. “Pejo will take us as far as Loznica and he knows a man who can take us on to Belgrade. We can catch a plane from there.”

“Nice work,” I say approvingly, and he shoots me a quick look, as if to check I'm being serious.

On the journey back to New York I can almost see him folding in on himself, becoming more self-conscious, quieter, more formal. But it is too late. When he is glowering in one of our briefings or sulking amidst the banter of the commissary, or uncertain and reserved in a room of Western small talk and conventions, I look at him and I see him dancing, and the firelight, and the joy.

 

_Finis_


End file.
